Trust Funds
by M1ssUnd3rst4nd1ng
Summary: A confession makes Arthur question his ability to trust Merlin, but upon digging further into it, he finds that Merlin's loyalty and trustworthiness is still the gold standard. Once he can pry the truth from him. One-shot.


**Disclaimer: I do not own _Merlin_ , or any characters, settings, or events associated with it; all rights belong to their respective creators.**

 **Cover art by Phoebe594, who is the gold-standard for cover artists.**

* * *

"Fine gold is recognized when it is tested."

\- Leonardo da Vinci

* * *

When harsh sunlight abruptly flooded Arthur's eyes and brain accompanied by the sound of drapery opening—not too slow, but not too fast, either, unlike Merlin's usual careless flinging—and nothing else, not a single irritating bit of cheer, not even a quiet "morning" or reminder of Arthur's to-do list for the day, Arthur immediately knew that something was wrong. As his brain wasn't getting signals of danger-wrong, it refused to wake up any more quickly than usual, leaving him with a pressing but muddled and unspecific feeling of _wrong_ to confuse his efforts to struggle awake. Usually, Merlin would prod him, verbally or physically, and speed the process up, but instead this morning's absence of that prodding was slowing it down.

When it had been far too long and he hadn't done more than shift slightly on the bed and frown as he tried to force his brain to simultaneously wake up and identify the problem without exposing his eyes to the glare of the sunlight, Merlin finally did something. He put a hand on Arthur's shoulder and said his name and the feeling of _wrong-problem-fix-it_ went up a hundredfold.

The voice was all wrong, he realized even as he opened his eyes and sat up and the man in question backed hastily away without looking at him (which was only more wrong). That voice had been strangled and raw and subdued and humming with emotions and energy Arthur wasn't nearly awake enough to identify. His appearance wasn't much better, pale and ruffled, posture slumped and hunched and stiff in an odd way, with strained lines around eyes and mouth and a frenetic energy thrumming through his limbs rather than being translated into endless chatter as it usually would be. In fact, as he tracked Merlin with his eyes, he realized it was being translated into efficiency: a full breakfast was arrayed on the table; Arthur's clothing for the day was arranged over the dressing screen, sword and buttons and belt buckle gleaming obnoxiously, freshly-polished boots set out directly beneath; in fact, all of his armor and every scrap of metal from candlesticks to the letter-opener on his desk were positively glowing; his discarded clothing from the night before was nowhere to be seen (hadn't Merlin just _done_ laundry?); and he was fairly certain he hadn't left his desk quite that neat when he went to bed. Even now, Merlin was fussing with a dusting cloth, flitting from table to side board to mantle wiping up dust that Arthur couldn't find there, with a frown of concentration so deep he seemed to be waging a personal war against uncleanliness.

Merlin may not have been the most organized and professional manservant ever, but he was efficient in his own way and incredibly hard-working; still, his having done all of this, without being told or complaining or clumsily waking Arthur, was out of character. Merlin's dedication to the aspects of his duties he normally considered relatively unimportant and certainly not time-sensitive was out of character. The nervous, withdrawn demeanor (Arthur half-expected him to skitter from the room like a startled cat at any second), the lack of chatter or smile or even so much as looking at Arthur—out of character.

Arthur's vague, unsettling awareness that something was wrong crystallized in seconds and settled firmly on Merlin as its cause.

He moved from bed to table slowly, keeping an eye on Merlin who in turn seemed to be watching him closely and trying very hard to pretend he wasn't paying the slightest attention. He did not make any of the teasing or irritated comments that floated through his head. He ate quickly and mechanically, staring at the gleaming golden candlestick glowing in the center of the table with all his focus on Merlin who still wouldn't sit still. And when, infected by Merlin's nervous energy, he found he couldn't eat fast enough to satisfy the unsettled urge in his stomach, he left the table only half-finished.

Merlin moved to help him dress instantly, and Arthur watched him catch sight of the amount of food that remained on Arthur's plate, frown and open his mouth to say something, then apparently think better of it. He continued to frown, tense and silent and avoiding looking at Arthur as much as humanly possible, as he went through the task of dressing him.

When he finished, he stepped back and finally spoke. "Arthur—" The word was as tense as his frown and posture and . . . lost. And cut off with a shake of his head, also aborted.

Then he dropped, falling gracelessly, bonelessly, and Arthur thought he'd fainted or something. He took a step forward, reaching to catch Merlin and instead catching himself when he realized almost instantly that the other man was kneeling, intentionally, rather than having fallen prey to some mysterious injury or illness. He stepped back, surprised and surprisingly uncomfortable.

"Sire, I have something to confess," Merlin said quietly, head bowed and voice and posture stiff.

"Ah," Arthur teased, relieved that it was just Merlin being dramatic and not an actual problem causing the morning's oddness, "so that's why you've been so efficient this morning. Hoping to get off the hook for whatever it is?"

Merlin's head came up and turned, brow furrowed as he looked around the room. "Wh—? No." He looked back at Arthur, still blinking, confused and distracted from his purpose enough to actually _look_ at Arthur for the first time all morning. "I couldn't sleep and I—I wanted this over with, so I just . . ." He trailed off with an expressive shrug and Arthur stiffened in concern.

The kneeling. The lack of sleep. The nerves. The completely out of character behavior. This was more than just Merlin being dramatic.

"Merlin, what on earth is _wrong_?"

Merlin's hands, clasped in front of him, started fidgeting again. He took a deep breath, lowering his head. "I took—" He stopped. Shook his head. "I stole from you."

Relief flooded Arthur again, and a bit of irritation for Merlin causing such a fuss and definitely not making him worry or anything. "Merlin, if you're stealing food, there's no reason to—"

"Gold," Merlin cut in, and Arthur froze in shock. "I stole gold from you," he repeated faintly, as if he couldn't quite believe it himself. "Ten gold coins." Arthur couldn't help glancing in the direction of his money chest and Merlin must have seen it or guessed, because he nodded and added, "From the chest under your bed."

Arthur almost asked how, then found he didn't need to: Merlin had unrestricted access to his chambers and all of his things; no guard in Camelot would so much as question him, even if he had carried the entire chest right out the door. They might have even helped him carry it. And Merlin—alone other than Arthur himself—knew where Arthur kept his keys and his gold and which of the first unlocked the second; not even his father had that information. Merlin had had free access to Arthur's gold for years—Arthur had given it to him so that he could carry out purchases on Arthur's behalf without bothering him—if he'd wanted to take it, he could have, easily.

And apparently, he had.

The betrayal of trust stung more than the loss of gold and anger swept through Arthur almost immediately. He strode past Merlin, slapped the nearest bed post, then kicked it for good measure, and turned back ready to scream at the servant he had thought a friend, ready to hit and kick him, even, before he banished him to the dungeons and left him to the mercy of the king.

Then he saw him. _Merlin_ , still kneeling in the same place where he'd dropped to his knees to confess the theft of his own free will, a theft that Arthur never would have realized on his own, a theft that Merlin could have perpetrated at any time and in greater amounts and apparently hadn't. Logic asserted itself: the anger ebbed as quickly as it had risen, sinking from a boiling rage to anger mixed with grief and hurt and simmering beneath confusion.

Merlin didn't have to confess, but he had. Merlin could have tried to defend his actions, or at least minimize them, but he hadn't. Merlin could have emptied the chest and vanished into the night and Arthur wouldn't have known for too long to have followed him, but he hadn't. Why? Why steal and then kneel in front of the prince, submissive and guilty and sad, and confess everything?

Leaning against the bed post, Arthur considered facts. Merlin had had access to Arthur's gold for years. If he'd wanted to, he could have been siphoning gold off all along or he could have emptied it in one go. If the first, if any amount had gone missing at any time, no one could ever have known except Arthur and himself, and Arthur likely either wouldn't have noticed or would have put it down to an error on the part of one of them and sent Merlin to muck the stables or something; without this confession, Arthur never would have suspected Merlin of stealing from him. Even if Arthur had suspected that _someone_ had stolen from him, he wouldn't have suspected _Merlin_. There was a reason, after all, that Merlin _had_ access to Arthur's gold: because he was trustworthy and loyal to a fault and dependable when it really counted and he was Arthur's friend. So, fact one: Merlin could have easily stolen as much of Arthur's gold as he wanted and gotten away with it.

Fact two: Merlin had, by his own admission, stolen gold from Arthur. Specifically, ten pieces. Again, why so little? And why now?

Fact three: Merlin had confessed, against all logic. If he made it to the point of actually taking the gold, of physically accessing Arthur's keys, pulling the heavy chest from under the bed, opening it, removing the coins, and then returning keys and chest—a process Arthur knew from his repeated complaints that Merlin found irritating and tedious—why would he then turn around and confess? If he'd had second thoughts, he could have stopped at any time or simply returned the coins without Arthur ever knowing they'd been gone. But instead he'd gone to all the effort to take the coins, and then confessed.

Did something drive him to take the coins, some pressing need that overwhelmed his good sense and his loyalty temporarily, and now that the need was met his usual character was coming back to the forefront?

Fact four: as usual with Merlin, considering the facts only led to more questions.

The most pressing, and all-encompassing, of which was, "Why?"

"I needed the money—just temporarily, I did intend to return it—and I knew you wouldn't miss it in the meantime. But now I can't return it, so . . ." Interestingly enough, the majority of the guilt in his voice was concentrated on the second part of that statement.

Arthur felt his anger growing again and stalked around to the front of Merlin, vindictively pleased to see him swallow nervously. "Temporarily?" he sneered. "You _temporarily_ stole money and now you can't pay it back? What happened? Did you lose it gambling on one of your trips to the tavern?"

"Yes." But Merlin's eyes said something different, relief and disappointment and resignation, and Arthur realized he was lying, agreeing with what Arthur suggested so that he didn't have to tell the truth.

He was angry for a different reason now and in a different way, cooler, steadier, firmer, less flame and more ice. "Get up," he ordered, turning without waiting to see if he was obeyed and striding to the table to pull out a chair and drag it in front of his desk. He turned back to Merlin, standing waiting with his head bowed, and pointed at the chair. "Sit."

Arthur stalked around his desk and sat, staring Merlin down as he calmly and deliberately laced his fingers together, resting his forearms on the desk and leaning casually over them. Merlin watched him back, studying him, gauging his mood as he always did; the fingers twisting each other to death in his lap told of his nerves at what he saw.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly.

"I don't want apologies, Merlin. I want an explanation."

Merlin nodded, understanding and accommodating, and Arthur fought the urge to scream in frustration at the paradox of this man. This man who would steal from him and then confess, who would betray him and then be understanding.

"I took the gold to the tavern to gamble with, and I lost it."

This man who would confess to a crime he could have gotten away with and then lie to Arthur's face about his reasons for committing it.

He was lying badly, too, voice flat, empty but for a note of regret, and face resigned.

"Enough, Merlin," Arthur bit out. "Do you think me a fool?"

"No! Of course not!"

"Then stop lying to me."

"I'm not." A much better attempt, sincere and offended and maybe a little scared. Arthur almost doubted himself. But he reminded himself of Merlin's expression just a moment ago, of all the things that didn't make sense this morning.

"You are," he said firmly. "I'm the _prince_. You can't lie to me."

"If I _can't_ lie to you, then clearly I'm not, because it's impossible," Merlin shot back, sarcastic and pleased with himself in spite of the situation.

" _You_ are impossible," Arthur said, frustrated. "And you are quite capable of lying, clearly, because you are. Just tell me why you took the coins."

"Does it matter?" Merlin asked, also frustrated. "I stole gold from the prince of Camelot. I abused your trust. I—" He swallowed hard. "What does it matter why?"

"Exactly!" Merlin raised an eyebrow in confused surprise. "It doesn't matter," Arthur agreed, then finished triumphantly, "which is why you should have no problem telling me."

"If it doesn't matter, why do you want to know so badly?"

"I'm the prince of Camelot and if I want to know something, it matters whether or not one of my subjects tells me, _Mer_ lin."

"But you just said that it doesn't matter, and now you're saying it does. Make up your mind; you can't have it both ways, sire," Merlin drawled sarcastically.

"Yes I can!"

Merlin rolled his eyes. "You are not above the laws of nature. Something can't be and not be at the same time, no matter who you are. It's impossible for me to lie to you because you're the prince of Camelot, but I'm lying to you. It doesn't matter why I broke the law, but also, because you're the prince of Camelot, it does."

Arthur growled at him. After a moment's silence, Arthur began again, much more calmly. "The law is black and white— _why_ does not necessarily matter to it. But the law is interpreted by those who are given the responsibility to execute it, and as a man, as prince and future king, it is my duty to my people and to myself—and to you—to temper judgment with mercy, to shade the black and white of the law with understanding where I can." Merlin looked away, eyes full of sorrow and regret, but jaw firm with determination. Arthur continued softly, "As your friend, it _matters_ to _me_ why you would steal from me, even temporarily, why you would betray my trust like that." Merlin's eyes closed and his shoulders slumped and Arthur could _feel_ his resolve cracking. "It matters to me why you didn't think enough of me to just _ask_. Did you not think I would have let you borrow it, if you needed it? Did you not consider that I might just _give_ it to you, if you had asked? Do you think that badly of me?"

With an abrupt sigh, Merlin looked up, frowning. He suddenly looked bone-weary. "I know you would have let me borrow it, but you would have asked questions and I didn't want you to know what I needed it for. I _don't_ want you to know. Just—Please, trust me that it was important, that I wouldn't have done it the way I did if I didn't think it was necessary, and that I would never _betray_ you. You are my friend and king and the best man I know, Arthur. It was not because I think badly of you."

"Yet you _stole_ from me and are _lying_ to me about why. In what way is that not a betrayal? How can you claim to think well of me, when your opinion of me was clearly not enough to stop you?"

Merlin looked pained. "I—" He hesitated, then, sounding desperate. "Please don't ask any more questions. Just—Whatever you're going to do to me for stealing, please just do it."

Arthur leaned forward, frowning. "Why don't you want to tell me? Can you at least tell me that?"

"Because you don't want to know, Arthur." His face was serious and determined, set like a man marching off to his duty, and Arthur had a sudden, baffling realization.

"You're protecting me."

"Yes," was Merlin's reply, firm and unyielding.

Arthur gaped incredulously. "I don't need your protection."

A strange look crossed Merlin's face. "I think you do. More than you can possibly know." He was certain in his conviction that Arthur needed his protection, fierce and determined, and it unsettled Arthur a bit to think of it.

"From what, gossiping kitchen maids?" he tried to joke.

Merlin didn't take the bait. Instead, if Arthur was reading his expression right, that was a distinct possibility. He stopped.

Gold.

For a reason Merlin was protecting him from.

Not a betrayal.

Important. Enough that Merlin would steal from him.

"Merlin, why did you take the gold?" His voice sounded strange in his own ears and the look Merlin gave him—worried and something else—said that he heard it too.

"Arthur—" Cautious and frustrated, but Arthur ignored him.

"Were you paying off gossiping kitchen maids to keep them quiet?"

"No," Merlin said warily, watching him with a sharp gaze.

Arthur leaned back in his seat, calculating, looking past Merlin as a hundred possibilities ran through his head. "Hiring spies?"

"Arthur, stop."

"Paying someone for information?" Something changed in Merlin's expression at that. Froze. Nervous evasion sparked deep in his eyes and his fingers twitched.

"Arthur. Stop. I'm not going to tell you."

"You already have," Arthur told him smugly, gesturing towards his expression. Instantly, Merlin dropped his head, jaw clamping. "So. Paying someone for information, then. What sort of information?" Merlin sat completely still. "Information about a person? Hmm?" A muscle in Merlin's jaw twitched. "Cenred, maybe? Morgause? Morgana?" Nothing. Further afield, then. "Odin? Alined? The Saxons?" Still nothing. He pondered a moment, then, thinking aloud, "Is it someone closer to home? Were you paying for the information to be kept quiet?" There went the muscle in Merlin's jaw again. "So who were you paying to keep something quiet, then? Not the gossiping kitchen maids. Stable hand with a burr in his saddle?" Merlin didn't even respond to the joke. Rude. "A guard or knight who had too much to drink?" He was getting nowhere with this line of questioning and there were too many people and reasons to keep taking shots in the dark, so he paused a moment to rethink his strategy.

"What kind of information were you trying to keep from getting out? Information about Camelot's defenses?" Merlin's jaw flexed, but it was different than before, almost considering, and Arthur took it to mean _almost but not quite_. Something more oblique then? "Information about Camelot's defenders?"

That really struck a nerve. Merlin finally looked up, a resigned look in his eyes. "Arthur, please, stop."

But Arthur couldn't. He was almost there.

Merlin's view of the king was borderline treasonous, especially with how hard he'd been pushing Arthur lately, so probably not him. But Arthur, Merlin would do just about anything for Arthur, and he could see Merlin justifying using his gold if it was to protect him. "It was me, wasn't it?"

Merlin heaved a long-suffering sigh. "Yes," he all but bit out. "Can you let it go at that?"

"Should I?" Arthur asked, to himself as much as Merlin.

With another sigh, Merlin reached up to rub at his temples, closing his eyes and frowning; his weariness again evident. Arthur waited silently for him to speak. Finally, he said, "Arthur." He looked up and met Arthur's eyes, sincere. "Look, you've been really busy practically running the kingdom and organizing the searches for Morgana and training and looking out for your men. That's all really important. It's my job to make your job as easy as possible, by taking care of the less important things, or the things that don't necessarily require you. Telling you all the little details only adds to your stress, not decreases it. Can you just trust me when I say it's nothing for you to worry about and leave it at that?"

Arthur considered that. He did trust Merlin, but he also needed to know what was going on. With a sigh of his own, he leaned forward, resting his weight on folded arms. "Yes and no," he decided. "I trust you, but, Merlin, you said you stole from me. That's serious. And now you won't give me any details, leaving me to make guesses and fill in the holes in the story by myself. I need to know what happened. This—not knowing, right now, is not making my job easier, it _is_ adding to my stress.

"You've told me that you stole from me. I've guessed that it has something to do with you trying to protect me from some information someone has, but I don't know who or what and that's worrying. The fact that you're so unwilling to tell me is even more worrying."

"I'm sorry," Merlin answered. "I didn't mean to worry you, I—I just—It honestly isn't anything to worry about. The man who said he knew something, he didn't end up having any real information."

Arthur breathed a sigh of relief, and then stopped as a question suddenly occurred to him. "If he didn't have any information, why did you pay him?"

Merlin flushed. "Eh, I didn't. I wasn't lying when I said I lost it."

"You misplaced it?"

Merlin hesitated awkwardly, one hand rising towards his head only to pause halfway and then drop. Arthur blew out a deep breath in frustration and closed his eyes, slumping in his seat and rubbing viciously at his temples. He wondered if Merlin had been feeling a headache like this when he'd done the same thing a minute ago. "Tell me everything. Now."

* * *

In Merlin's experience since coming to Camelot, whenever someone began with "You, boy," it rarely ended pleasantly for the boy in question, namely him.

Especially when their next words were "They tell me you're our dear prince's manservant."

The voice was as foreboding as the man's appearance, oily and smooth where his face was greasy and lined and jagged. There was a scar over the man's eye, diagonally through the eyebrow, that looked like it had been a very near tragedy and reminded Merlin uncomfortably of Uther, and another along his jaw; the combined effects made for a very lopsided leer.

Merlin's instincts told him to run the other direction, as far and as fast as he could, but the mention of Arthur, and the look and tone that accompanied, overrode everything else and led him to stay and ask, "Now why would they do that?" in a friendly jesting tone that disguised the cautious probe for information.

"On account of I was inquiring of a way to give our dear prince a message." Barely polite, self-satisfied, a little ominous.

Merlin dropped the jest and friendliness and went straight for business. "What's the message?"

The man leaned in and Merlin held his breath for more than one reason—his stench was as unpleasant as his general existence had proven so far. "You tell him, I know his secret and I know what'll happen if that secret gets out, especially if it makes its way to the king. And you tell him, he brings me five hundred gold coins to The Dancing Wench by the midnight bell tonight or I make _sure_ the king finds out."

Merlin raised a careful eyebrow. He made sure his skepticism leaked out of every word as he said, "And he's just supposed to take the word of a complete stranger that you know this dangerous secret he may or may not have and meet you in secret at a tavern of ill repute in the middle of the night to pay you an absurd amount of money to keep it quiet?"

The man leaned back, his jagged face splitting into a splitting into an evil, crooked grin. "Word is, king's not very tolerant of late, not even with our dear prince." Satisfaction dripped from every word. "As for his secret, he knows what it is, an' he knows how dangerous it is, even when the king isn't all on edge. Somehow, I don't suppose he's gonna be much willing to take the chance. So you just run along, now, and I tell him that I know too and so will the king if he doesn't bring me my gold by midnight, and you let us two worry about the rest. Off you go, boy." And Merlin went, pondering what to do with the threat.

He could tell Arthur, of course, and let him deal with it, as the man had said. But Arthur had so much on his plate already, trying to keep his men fit and ready to defend Camelot while also meeting his father's demands for the constant search for Morgana, trying to keep Camelot functioning and not panicking while his father focused obsessively on Morgana and his war against sorcery (without his father noticing), trying to be strong for his father and Gwen and every other person in Camelot—all of which was Merlin's fault. He couldn't bring himself to add another problem to that heap, especially while he still wasn't sure the man actually knew anything worth the added trouble; he'd hate to cause extra stress to his master without reason.

And Arthur's self-esteem, always hovering low when it came to his ability to be a king trusted by his people, had been even lower of late, between the loss of Morgana, which he blamed on himself, and running himself ragged in the aftermath. Which was, again, Merlin's fault for having poisoned Morgana and then sent her away in the first place. Arthur needed to know that his people loved him, as the majority of them did, not be focused on the few who had less than shining opinions; Merlin couldn't be responsible for telling him that somebody was threatening him with some kind of information they claimed to hold against him unless it was absolutely necessary that he know

He couldn't pay the man himself; he had no money of his own and wouldn't use that much of Arthur's without his prior knowledge and consent. Which would require telling Arthur, which he'd already decided not to do.

Ignoring the man and letting him get to Uther with whatever information he claimed to have was out of the question. He'd been right about Uther's mood lately, and Merlin couldn't chance an accusation hitting him just right that it might be dangerous for Arthur. It wouldn't even have to be true, just plausible enough for Uther to grab hold of it. Until he was absolutely certain this threat posed no possible risk to Arthur, he'd have to treat it as if it did.

There was also the consideration that Arthur had a very real secret he was keeping from Uther, one that could be dangerous if discovered by the wrong person—his relationship with Gwen. Merlin had no idea how the man could possibly have found that out, but couldn't rule it out until he knew for sure what the man knew.

He couldn't be sure whether whatever the man claimed to know was dangerous to Arthur or not—couldn't be sure he even knew anything at all—and until he was sure, he had no way of knowing what the best course of action would be. He needed to know what the man knew before deciding on his next move. But how to find out?

It took him half an hour of distracted laundry to flesh out a plan: he would take a smaller amount of money to the tavern tonight himself and would claim that Arthur had sent him to find out what the man knew before making the payment in full, with a handful of coins as a promise toward the rest and a sign of good will. He would have to use Arthur's gold, but Arthur had given him authority to bargain in his name and that was basically what he would be doing. If the man knew nothing, Merlin would simply return the gold and that would be the end of it. If he _did_ know something, Merlin would use the coins he brought with him to buy his silence for a little longer, long enough to tell Arthur everything and let him decide what to do next. It was perfect.

He decided to take ten gold pieces. A small enough amount that he felt comfortable using it in Arthur's name without his direct knowledge and could safely conceal it on his person and transfer it discreetly to the blackmailer if need be, but large enough to assure the man of "Arthur's" sincerity and willingness to pay without insulting him and pushing him into telling Uther out of spite.

Arthur had dinner with some nobles that night—another thing that had fallen to him because of Uther's distraction; Merlin's fault—and it was simple enough to make an excuse to avoid it and slip into Arthur's chambers while he was absent. He felt guilt and anticipation in equal measure sneaking the gold from Arthur's chest and into the small leather pouch he'd borrowed from Gaius; he'd always found the process tedious, but this time it was disconcertingly quick and easy.

The man was angry at Merlin's appearance instead of Arthur, but he had always been good at talking himself out of things and ten gold coins were hard to ignore, especially as candlelight made them shine when Merlin opened the pouch to give the man a peek and verify he had actually brought what he said. Closing the pouch and tucking it back into his pocket, he said, "As I said, five hundred gold is quite a lot of money and my master wants to be absolutely certain what he's paying for before transferring it." The man dithered a bit, but it seemed to Merlin it was more for the sake of not appearing weak than anything; the gold at hand and the near-solid promise of more to come was too much for him to resist. Just to be certain, he added a bit of flattery, playing up the innocent, naïve servant. "He said that you would understand that that's how business works when dealing with such large amounts." The man fairly preened.

Leaning in, he began to spill Arthur's dangerous secret in a gleeful, confiding voice whisper. "Listen here, boy, an' hold on to your hat!" He paused dramatically to ensure he had Merlin's full attention, leaning even closer to Merlin's decidedly hat-less head. "Our dear prince has magic!"

Merlin snorted, surprised and relieved. "What?"

"Prince Arthur of Camelot has magic."

As ridiculous as the claim was—of _course_ Arthur didn't have magic; Merlin would _know_ —Uther had been in an even less rational frame of mind than usual, especially where magic was concerned, and Arthur _had_ been born of magic, as Uther very well knew. Once the idea had been planted would his natural suspicion of magic make it seem somehow plausible? Especially if the man had some kind of "proof."

And there was bound to be _some_ kind of proof, given how much magic Merlin himself used around Arthur on a semi-regular basis.

"Why would you say that?" he asked carefully.

"Now I know it's hard to believe—"

"Impossible to believe," Merlin cut in, both because it was true and because he wanted to squash this idea as thoroughly as possible.

"Now I'm gonna forgive your tone this time, boy, on account of how shocking it must be to find out you're serving a sorcerer, but you listen here: I ain't asked for your opinion. All I need from you is for you to do your job and deliver my message to the prince."

"My job," Merlin corrected, "is to determine the plausibility of your threat to somehow reveal damaging information about the prince to the king. At the moment, all I'm hearing are wild and completely unfounded claims that Uther Pendragon's son has magic. That does not fulfill my duty." The man eyed him speculatively, but made no move to strengthen his claim. "And you don't get paid until my duty is fulfilled," Merlin cajoled.

The man growled deep in his throat, lip rising in a snarl, but after a moment's dithering he began speaking through clenched teeth. "Fine. I won't go into the details on account of I don't have to, but my proof is basically the prince's battle record, all common knowledge."

Oh boy. This could go very wrong, for Arthur and for Merlin personally.

The man continued, "There is no way anyone that young could win as many victories as he has—against seasoned knights, against bands of mercenaries that vastly outnumber him, against sorcerers and beasts that scores of other had failed against—not without magic." Merlin almost giggled in relief. Uther was quite proud of his battle skills, especially with the sword, and quite certain of his ability to defeat even sorcerers of great strength with steel alone and he seemed to believe swordsmanship an inheritable trait; any suggestion that Arthur _wasn't_ capable of winning such victories with just a sword would be a personal affront to Uther and the majority of the court. And Arthur really was astonishingly good with a sword—quite a few of those victories, especially the ones against other knights, hadn't involved Merlin's magic at all.

Still, better to be safe and stop the idea ever making it to Uther. "Prince Arthur's very skilled with a sword," he reasoned. Then, thinking like Uther, "And why would the prince fight sorcerers if he was one? Why would a sorcerer fight against his own?"

He could see that the man's certainty was shaken, but again his need to preserve appearances overrode everything else and he pressed the point harder. "I've traveled quite a bit, boy, seen a lot of things. And I've heard things, too, about creatures that can only be defeated by magic and that the prince of Camelot somehow killed. Unicorn. Griffon. Bastet. Questing Beast. Dragon."

Merlin could argue that the unicorn and bastet hadn't actually needed magic to kill, and that he wasn't entirely certain the Questing Beast or the Great Dragon had either (though it had certainly helped), but decided to go for the most effective and least damning argument, his tone guileless: "King Uther says the idea that certain creatures can only be killed by magic is superstitious nonsense. And offensive to real warriors."

The man deflated a bit, but still wasn't ready to give up. "A few years back, there was that witch that had the whole court sleeping under an enchantment and Arthur somehow— _magically_ —broke the enchantment and defeated her singlehandedly, even though he fell under her enchantment at first, just like the rest of them." Merlin had to fight the urge to roll his eyes; not only was that version of events wildly inaccurate, but it somehow gave Arthur the credit for the _one_ thing he thought he'd actually gotten credit for. "And folks say he was enchanted to fall in love with the Lady Vivian a while back and broke that one too. _Magically_." Okay, that was fair. But that one hadn't required the sorcery kind of magic. "Only sorcerers can break out from under a spell." Interesting supposition; Merlin made a note to self to look into that. Later.

"Mary Collins, the witch who put the court to sleep, was killed by a chandelier knocked loose by the force of her own spell; King Uther was present and announced it himself, and he will remember that." That was Uther's version of events, and if it stopped people looking too closely, Merlin was more than content to go with it. "I don't know where you heard that the prince was enchanted to fall in love with Lady Vivian; there's no foundation for such rumors." Between Alined and Merlin, there was no possible way anyone could prove it, and as it was embarrassing and Arthur's memory of it seemed foggy, it might as well not have happened as far as Uther was concerned.

"The witchfinder Aredian said there was great magic at work at the heart of Camelot."

"And then was himself convicted of sorcery, and of framing the Court Physician for the reward money on top of it."

"Boy—" the man began warningly.

Merlin cut him off smoothly. "I was sent here to determine whether or not you posed a threat to my master. As you clearly don't, my business here is done." Standing, he wished the man a good evening and turned to go, but was stopped by an iron grip squeezing his upper arm tightly.

"You insolent whelp," the man hissed in his ear, drawing them close together. "You give me that little pouch of gold you brought and tell your prince the price has gone up to six hundred besides what's in there, on account of your smart mouth, or I'm going straight to the king in the morning. And don't think that prince of yours can stop me because I'm prepared for him."

Merlin turned his head to look the man in the eye and raised one eyebrow, slow and unbothered. "If you want to march into court and tell _Uther Pendragon_ that you think _his son and heir_ has _magic_ —with only flimsy and incorrect rumor to back it up, no less—I see no reason why my master should waste perfectly good gold to stop you. As you said, the king _has_ been on edge and very intolerant of late." He smirked. "Somehow, I don't suppose you're gonna be much willing to take the chance."

Merlin extricated himself and exited the building while the man was still trying to figure out how this had been turned around on him and what to do next, heading home with Arthur's gold still in his pocket and ready to be returned at the first opportunity. He was quite pleased with himself.

He was halfway home when pain exploded in the back of his head and his vision went grey. He was vaguely aware of a hand on his arm, pressure and pulling and hurting, but the sensation was overwhelmed by the sickening lurch of head and vision and stomach as he was jerked into motion. By the time the pounding in his head and the grey in his vision and the nausea in his stomach and throat has subsided enough that he was aware of his surroundings again, he found himself pressed face-first into a rough stone wall, the weight of another body bearing down on him and a hand digging in his pocket.

"You owe me some gold, boy," a voice growled in his ear. Merlin gulped in recognition and stilled from the struggling movements he hadn't even realized he'd been making. The man chuckled. "There's a good boy."

"That's the prince's money," Merlin forced out through the pressure in his chest as the man withdrew the pouch.

"And he sent it to me in good faith, so I'm taking it in good faith. Don't worry now—" He patted Merlin on the side. "I'm taking your advice; I won't be going to Uther. I'm headed straight out of town and this—" He shook the pouch hard, producing a muffled clink, then shifted his weight to the side and Merlin guessed he was putting it in his own pocket as he spoke. "This'll set me up nicely on my way.

"Now I'm sure you're worried you'll be in trouble for the loss of the coins—" He _hadn't_ been. "—but whatever punishment your prince dishes out, consider it repayment for how rudely you treated me." He leaned in even closer, lips brushing Merlin's ear. "I'd take care of it myself, but I don't trust you and your prince a lick, so I'm in a bit of a hurry." Then with a laugh he hit Merlin hard in the ribs, poked the throbbing spot on his head where he'd hit him earlier, and released him with a shove.

Merlin barely noticed his disappearance, too lost in vomiting bile and gasping for air from the final assault.

When he finally sat up and settled against the wall, he knew only one thing: whatever punishment Arthur gave him for the loss—no, the theft, he didn't have Arthur's permission—whatever punishment Arthur gave him, he couldn't tell him about the man's accusation of magic. He did not need Arthur looking too closely at the man's proof, nor did he think he could handle it if Arthur reacted as if magic were the worst thing someone could be accused of, on top of all the complications that would come from Arthur knowing someone had tried to blackmail him.

* * *

Merlin took a moment to put his thoughts in order, but unlike the tense awkward silences that had preceded it, this silence was companionable. Arthur had no doubt Merlin would comply with his request, and so waited patiently enough.

"I don't know who he was," Merlin began, "and, at first, I didn't know what he knew, he just approached me in the lower town yesterday, said he'd been told I was your servant and he wanted me to deliver you a message. He said he knew your secret and knew how dangerous it would be if your father found out about it. He said if you didn't bring five hundred gold pieces to a certain tavern by the midnight bell, he had a way of ensuring your father found out."

"Five hundred?" Arthur cut in. "You said ten."

"I—am getting there. Honestly, you drag a story out of me and then don't even have the patience to let me tell it."

"Fine, fine. Get on with it."

"Even when pressed at that first meeting—"

" _First_ meeting?"

"Arthur."

Arthur nodded and waved his hand in an imperious signal to carry on.

"Even when pressed at that first meeting, he gave me no information as to what the secret he was threatening to reveal might be. Just that it was dangerous; he didn't specify to whom. I might have ignored it, except that you do have a secret that would be dangerous to someone if your father found out, and I didn't know for sure what he did or didn't know."

"Did he threaten Guinevere?" Arthur growled dangerously.

"No, Arthur. He didn't know about Gwen. I would have told you if she were threatened."

Arthur searched his face and found only honesty and confidence, not a single sign of hesitation or wavering. "You're certain?"

"I am."

"You said he wouldn't say what he knew."

"At the first meeting, no." Merlin flashed him a smile. "I'm getting there."

"Well get there then," Arthur groused.

Merlin grinned briefly, growing serious again as he picked his story back up. "Like I said, I didn't know then what he did or didn't know. It didn't seem right to bother you with it if it was nothing, but I couldn't just ignore it in case it was something. So I took ten coins and went to the meeting at midnight to find out." Arthur narrowed his eyes at Merlin, glaring dangerously, but didn't interrupt, and Merlin ignored him except to look a little sheepish. "I told him the coins were a sign of good faith and asked for more information as to what exactly he intended to tell Uther in return. I told him he couldn't expect you to pay him without any proof that he actually knew anything." That—was actually clever. "If it had been anything even remotely concerning, I would have told you, I swear, but it honestly was nothing true. So I told him as much, took the money, and left." Less clever. "I would have returned it and that would have been that, but he waylaid me on the way home and took the gold. He said he was leaving town with it, so you've really got nothing to worry about."

Nothing to worry about? "You said he waylaid you." He scanned Merlin's appearance, searching for signs of injury. There was that stiffness to his posture that hadn't abated, even as he'd relaxed, and a pinched look about the eyes, and signs of fatigue, but he couldn't be sure there wasn't more and that injuries were something Merlin felt the need to lie and protect Arthur from. "Are you injured?" he asked directly.

Merlin tilted his head and shrugged dismissively. "No." Arthur raised an eyebrow in disbelief. Merlin flushed slightly. "A bit of a headache, that's all."

"But of course you were incapable of defending my gold, even with just a bit of a headache," he mocked. Then more seriously, "Has Gaius had a look?"

Merlin sniffed, looking affronted. "I _am_ the physician's apprentice, you know; I'm more than capable of looking after myself."

"And yet you weren't able to stop yourself from being robbed." Merlin made to protest, but Arthur continued over him. "Probably because you were wandering around the lower town after midnight, after angering a ruffian who knows where you live and what route you were likely to take home, while carrying gold, alone, when even Guinevere is better in a fight than you are."

"I'm sorry," Merlin said sheepishly.

"You recklessly endangered . . . my gold."

A smirk ghosted across Merlin's face at the almost slip, but his amusement didn't last. "What are you going to do to me?"

"We're not done talking yet," Arthur said. "But there's no need to be so dramatic. You were robbed while acting in your capacity as my manservant to negotiate on my behalf. Sure, it was at least partially because of your stupidity, but it wasn't really your fault."

Relief and gratitude flashed across Merlin's face; the man really did wear all of his thoughts for the whole world to see.

"How many times have you done this?" Arthur wanted to know.

"I don't normally take your money," Merlin said instantly.

"I wasn't asking that, Merlin. How many times have you protected me in some way from what people think of me?"

Merlin shrugged, blushing and looking down. "I don't, really. I just listen to rumors and set people straight, usually. Most people wouldn't dare ask for money." Then he looked up at Arthur, all earnestness. "I'm not the only one you know. Most of your people are proud of you and they don't tend to tolerate nasty rumors." He beamed at Arthur.

Arthur rolled his eyes. "What sort of rumors?" he asked curiously.

"The kind that aren't worth repeating," Merlin smirked.

"Merlin," Arthur growled.

"Mostly love affairs. Trust me, you're a lot better off not hearing about it."

"Love affairs?"

"Not with Gwen," Merlin assured him quickly. "As far as I know, you, me, Gwen, and Gaius are the only ones who know; or at least if anybody else knows, they're not spreading it."

"If not Guinevere, then who?" Arthur demanded. "There isn't anybody else."

Merlin rolled his eyes. "There doesn't have to actually be anybody else for a rumor to get started, dollophead." Luckily for Arthur, Merlin hadn't cleared away the goblet he'd left on his desk. Unluckily for Merlin, Arthur had great aim.

"And this one?" Arthur asked once Merlin's complaints had died down. "Was it a love affair?"

"Eh, no," Merlin said, shifting awkwardly in his seat. He didn't seem inclined to go any further.

"Well?" Arthur pressed. "What sort of rumor was it, then?"

Merlin eyed him consideringly for a long moment, then a mischievous glint appeared in his eye. "This man claimed to have discovered a great secret about you," he said, straight-faced and overly serious and dramatic. Arthur regretted asking; he was fairly certain that was the point. "He had pieced together clues that many others would have ignored or dismissed as ridiculous to uncover the true truth! He said . . . that you had magic."

Arthur stared at him, dumbfounded. "He said what?"

"He said you had magic," Merlin repeated. "He said it's the only way you could have won as many battles as you have and defeated as many seasoned knights as you have."

Arthur scoffed, offended. "I am an excellent swordsman! Everybody knows that! If he doesn't believe that, he can come challenge me himself!"

"I don't think he's going to," Merlin remarked dryly.

Arthur most definitely did not sputter indignantly. He did definitely wish he hadn't already thrown the only throwable object in reach. After a moment, though, the full weight of the accusation sunk in. "He really believed that? Enough that he was going to accuse me of magic to my father and he expected to be believed?"

Merlin studied him. "It generally doesn't take all that much for your father to believe an accusation of magic." His face and voice were completely neutral, but his eyes held a challenge mixed with something Arthur couldn't identify. Arthur almost argued—as much to rise to Merlin's challenge as to defend his father—but then he remembered that Merlin himself had been accused of magic, that Gaius had nearly been executed for it, as had Guinevere; he remembered how easily his father accepted accusations of magic, how . . . dedicated he became when the topic arose, and found he couldn't honestly disagree. He settled for giving Merlin a warning glare, accepted with a defiant half-shrug.

"What do you think?" Arthur asked.

Something indescribable came into Merlin's eyes. "About accusing people of magic?" he asked carefully.

"About me," Arthur clarified. "His accusations."

"I think you're an excellent swordsman, sire."

Arthur really wished there were more throwable things on his desk, feeling his chest swell with pride in spite of himself at Merlin's compliment, even if it was only a confirmation of something he already knew. "I meant about the magic."

"I know you don't have magic."

"But did you wonder? Did you think for a second that maybe I did?" For some reason, he had to know if Merlin had doubted him, even for the briefest of times, if that unshakeable faith Merlin had always had in him could indeed be shaken.

Merlin frowned as if trying to figure out what Arthur was getting at. "No," he replied consideringly. He paused, still thinking, then said, firmly. "Even if I had, it wouldn't have mattered." Arthur somehow didn't doubt that. "Because you're Arthur, and nothing could change that."

He said it as if it were so simple and Arthur could see on his face that for him it was. Arthur was Arthur and nothing was going to change the way Merlin saw him. In the face of Merlin's friendship, magic would be nothing but a minor inconvenience.

In the face of Arthur's friendship with Merlin, he supposed ten gold coins were nothing but a minor inconvenience after all.

And for a minor inconvenience . . . "My stalls need mucking out, _Mer_ lin." He laughed as Merlin groaned dramatically.

* * *

"All that is gold does not glitter . . ."

\- J.R.R. Tolkien, _The Lord of the Rings_

* * *

 **The title is more abstract than anything, referring to Arthur's trust in Merlin and his gold and equating them, Merlin using Arthur's trust and his funds to take care of business, Arthur's concern being more for his trust than for the actual funds and the former winning out, and the modern idea of "trust funds" which is sort of what that stash under Arthur's bed is the equivalent of.**

 **Inspired by the episode "Goblin's Gold," in which Merlin just borrows a chest of gold from Arthur without telling him, and the idea of Merlin having to confess something or getting caught for something that isn't the magic, a sort of parallel to the magic reveal and maybe hinting at it, but not quite.**

 **Hope you enjoyed!**

 **As usual, comments, critiques, and constructive criticism are more than welcome as I am always looking to improve.**

 **Have a golden day!**

 **M1ssUnd3rst4nd1ng**


End file.
